


Into My Bloodstream...

by Punk_in_Docs



Series: Along Came Benedict: The Ben and Libby Saga... [3]
Category: Benedict Cumberbatch - Fandom, British Actor RPF
Genre: Angst, Best Friends, Break Up, Eventual Fluff, F/M, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-21
Updated: 2014-05-24
Packaged: 2018-01-26 00:12:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1667633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Punk_in_Docs/pseuds/Punk_in_Docs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Benedict. I know you’re in there. I can hear Morrissey.” She spoke softly to the door. Knowing he was the other side of it, listening. </p><p>“Come on Ben…”</p><p>she urged softly. Hearing several more seconds of silence, and she was just contemplating leaving the bag when she heard the soft shuffling of socked feet from inside the flat, and the twist of the lock. </p><p>She moved back to the door, and gently pushed it open. And quite another world greeted her when she stepped inside.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Tale of Misery, Woe and Cigarettes...

**Author's Note:**

> The tragic breakup that brings into question the long winded tale of friend? or more than that?

 

It was a miserable and bleak day in London, with rain clouds perching heavily in the sky, showing no inclination of leaving anytime soon, spitting heavy drops of rain over the clustered inhabitants of London, pouring down over the drying flushes of Autumn that was gripping the city. It was roughly noon as Libby hauled herself up the stairs to Benedict’s flat, determinedly striding along the posh carpeted corridors, and past the fragrant and posh arrangement of lilies on the hall table just opposite his door. She knocked briskly on the door that brandished the number 5A. Her knuckles tapped lightly on the wood, and she waited for an answer from within.

 

She stood there for two minutes, getting the vague sense of despair that the man was indeed screening his door, aswell as his calls. It had been nearly ten days, ten days since the woman Benedict decided he would offer engagement, marriage and a life too, had stomped on his heart with such ferocity, and had a sordid affair with an Italian Sunglass model right under Benedict’s nose in their shared flat. Unfortunately, Libby could recall the very day she met this woman, and the awful truths that confirmed that their involvement in each other’s lives would not end happily, or amicably,

 

It was early in the morning when Libby sauntered into Benedict’s flat, letting herself in with the key he had entrusted to her, she hollered at the top of her lungs that she had brought him a latte and biscotti. When a stunning goddess of a woman shyly wandered out of his room. Rachel Simmons had wonderfully unruly long black hair, and the sharpest yet most beautiful green eyes Libby had ever seen, and skin paler than snow. Libby’s jaw had dropped and she nearly felt the need to curtsey in her regal presence. Libby mumbled a couple of expletives, carelessly dropping the bundle of food and drinks in her hands on ben’s granite kitchen surface, stuttering and stumbling an apology, unaware of the fact that Benedict had some overnight company. Rachel had laughed, and dear good god, it was the world’s most pleasant sound, like a sound that snow white would use to summon woodland creatures to her cottage to help her dress in the morning. Rachel explained Benedict was in the shower, apologising profusely for the fact she was in his discarded old shirt. But, as women do, they both quickly motor mouthed off into a fast conversation, and a freshly showered, and thankfully, pyjama clad, Benedict padded out of his room ten minutes later to find that the two women were now practically blood sisters. But just before he did reappear to claim his now cooling breakfast his friend had brought him, when Libby had asked Rachel if she thought it was serious, Rachel shrugged. _Shrugged._

 

Benedict Cumberbatch. The aloof, handsome, witty, charming, goofy actor who had women from all corners of the earth shedding their knickers for him, had elected to spend a night with this woman, and possibly want a relationship, and all she could so, was _shrug…._

 

Libby’s heart had dropped like a stone into a pond. Sinking down low in her chest as she realised this woman could possibly be the biggest source and origin of heartbreak to her best friend. And it only kept getting worse.

 

Five weeks later, when their relationship was in the first flushes of its youth, over a posh lunch at a cosmopolitan restaurant in Knightsbridge, Rachel declined, wrinkling that perfect button shaped nose up, when Libby suggested whether or not she thought Ben was the one. She gave a meek little shake of her head.

 

The night of their eight month anniversary, at a poorly estimated Mexican themed fiesta party in celebration, in which everyone, including Ben, Libby and Tom, donned sombreros, giant fake moustaches and ponchos, and after a few shots of tequila, Rachel let loose that she was contemplating ending it.

 

At their engagement party, as by now Libby had established in startling horror, that whilst Rachel told her how she truly felt about the relationship, even going so far as to tell Libby she was seeing someone else behind Ben's back, and she hadn’t let a peep out to Ben, about both her feelings and the affair. So whilst Ben had toasted their future and leaned in to give his fiancé a kiss. Whilst happy members of his family, and his friends looked on in merriment and cheer, Libby’s heart was sickened and grey, and lay somewhere near her feet. Of course she had tried numerous times to tell Benedict what Rachel confessed to her In confidence, but Benedict would just roll his eyes and shake his head at her, and every time after Libby tried hinting at it, Benedict would get progressively more angry at her. But tonight, at the small bistro in Leicester square, he was unable to keep a lid on his temper.

 

He dragged Libby out to the street by her elbow, whilst his entire family and friends stayed inside and drank to his marriage. Libby had never seen him look so angry. He shouted thunderously about how she was just jealous of Rachel because she was single, and that she had nothing else in her life but her flighty and fleeting job that did little to satisfy her, that she was jealous of what he and Rachel had, and that was only doing it out of spite that she would always be a lonely spinster with nothing but her pathetic job and barely any friends to keep her sane.

 

Libby said nothing for a long moment. Tears were tracking down her face, and she searched so hard to find a shred of her best friend in the stranger that was stood yelling at her. Insulting her, her job, and her lifestyle. Digging at her where it hurt, just because he was engaged and she was still single. Libby walked forwards and thrust into his hand their wedding present, which were vouchers for the department store where they registered, saying to him he wouldn’t see her at the wedding, or ever again for that matter. Before she turned and looked for a cab, refusing to cry in front of him. A thundering tempered Ben had turned to walk back inside when a concerned Tom (Hiddleston) had been watching the angered exchange from the window, and who ran out after Libby. Ben, still in the grips of anger, muttered something poisonous sounding to Tom about prince charming going off to rescue the princess. And, anyone who knows Tom, knows he rarely got angry, or nasty. But at this, Tom's jaw clenched, and he growled angrily at Benedict to go back inside and have another drink. Chasing off after Libby as she fled in tears.

 

And now, 12 weeks later. 10 days after the affair had been aired for all to see, and splashed across every newspaper in the country. Rachel had long since fled to a yacht in Greece with the Italian. And Ben had been left alone, destroyed, and heartbroken. And Libby was left to pick up the pieces of what was left of him. Wincing as she realised their date to march down the aisle now being only three days away.

 

She knew this would be difficult, her and Benedict hadn’t spoken in 3 months. Their angered exchange at the engagement party being the last words they had spoken. They had occasionally crossed paths in London once or twice, all times with Libby being on her own, and Ben holding hands with, or having his arm around Rachel, but they made no move of recognition, they had just adopted stony faces and briskly turned away from one another. Benedict refusing to accept what she was saying, and Libby still licking her wounds over how he had insulted every aspect of her life just because she was trying to help him.

 

But now, more than ever. Libby needed her best friend. And Ben needed his.

 

 

 

It had been a good long few moments since she had knocked, and been met with silence at his front door. She slumped against the wood, pressing her ear to the door, until she heard the familiar soft thump and whiny echo of music drift through his flat on the other side of the door.

 

“Benedict. I know you’re in there. I can hear Morrissey.” She spoke softly to the door. Knowing he was the other side of it, listening.

 

“Come on Ben…” she urged softly. Hearing several more seconds of silence, and she was just contemplating leaving the bag of shopping on his doorstep with a note, and leaving, when she heard the soft shuffling of socked feet from inside the flat move across the pine floors, she heard the gyrating twist of the lock, before the shuffling retreated.

 

She moved back to the door, and gently pushed it open. And quite another world greeted her when she stepped inside.

 

Ben’s entirely posh, homely and hugging apartment seemed dead and dulled with pain. The air was fairly thick with wisps of strong cigarette smoke. The blinds and curtains were all drawn, throwing the once airy flat into half-darkness, the air seemed still and lifeless with the combination of pain, smoke and devoid of light. Morrissey’s dead voice was still strangling the air in the room, whinging and whining about pain and misery. Libby stepped over the mountain of post that had collected on his doormat. She stooped to scoop up the post, moving across the large open plan room to his kitchen, to set the post and the large bag of food and essentials she brought with her on his kitchen countertop. She then turned around, and caught a glimpse of the man himself slumped miserably on his sofa. A tumbler of whiskey in his hand as he stared straight ahead, his recognisable and famous profile despondent and glum, devoid of his usual air of liveliness. Barely acknowledging that she was here. His last cigarette twirling smoke up into the air in the ash tray in front of him. She knew it was his last as around five or six empty packets strewn around the coffee table on the carpet.

She inhaled a deep breath and walked over to him. Overstepping the empty cigarette packets as she did, moving to extinguish his last fag before it burned out. Moving the ashtray over so she could perch her bum on the edge of the coffee table. He stared at her knees, drinking more of the amber coloured liquid in his glass that she didn’t suspect was apple juice.

 

“That was my last one.” He rasped, swallowing. As he continued focusing his unwavering attention on her black denim clad kneecaps.

 

She let in a deep inhale of exasperation, tugging out two more small square cigarette packets from her jeans front pocket. And handing them to him.

 

He looked up at her in between wet lashes and red rimmed eyes. She hated buying him cigarettes, she refused too. She stated if he wanted a hobby that would kill him he should take up skydiving. But, knowing Ben’s adrenaline junkie aspect of his personality, she wouldn’t put it past him. Whenever he would light up around her, she would glare and kick up a fuss. If they were at her place and he was gasping for one, she would kick him outside, rain or shine. And he would have to savour it alone on her doorstep. Claiming she didn’t want those things to stink up her house.

 

“You hate me smoking.” He reminded her in a husky upset voice.

 

“I know I do. These death sticks you pay money for, will eventually kill you.”

 

She growled, smiling as she fought her displeasure. Slapping the packets down softly on his denim clad thigh.

 

“…But given the circumstances being what they are, I will cease being your mother for the day, and let you enjoy them.” She assured.

 

Ben nodded glumly, the first small semblance of emotion crossing his lips as his lips twanged oh so slightly in a smile.

 

“Why are you being so nice to me? I don’t deserve it…” Ben admitted in a small voice.

 

“I’d like to think you’ll repay me the favour one day, when I get my heart broken. Again.” she urged.

 

There was silence for a moment, as, thankfully, Morrissey shifted into silence on the iPod dock. Ben knew her words weren’t pointed at him, but he couldn’t escape the heavy hint that what he had said to her, and causing her to lose her best friend for 12 weeks was, essentially, heart breaking. He knew in that moment, that he had hurt her beyond measure with what he had said in anger and disbelief.

 

“I’m sorry.” He said glumly, daring to raise his eyes from her knees to her lovely blue orbs that glittered in the half light.

 

“I know you are.” She explained, placing one hand on his knee in affection.

 

“But that doesn’t mean I don’t like hearing your apology…. and I’m sorry too.” She spoke quietly.

 

“What have you got to be sorry for?” he asked determinedly.

 

“You were only trying to tell me the truth…. Only trying to warn me that the woman I loved and wanted to marry was in fact doubting every step our relationship took, and was in fact seeing that el Dulce, dolce and gabbana prick from the very first night I met her, and had no inclination of loving me, or marrying me.”

 

Libby winced, her softly arched brows pulled down and her pretty face wrinkled in pain.

 

“You deserve better than her, ben. You really do” Libby said in a small voice.

 

He nodded, head bowing, as he dived back into his glass again. Even talking about Rachel was settling his shredded heart into a barbed wire and razor blades pit of ache. Like an open wound having lemon juice swabbed over it. It was sharp, stinging and immediately painful.

 

“She left all her stuff here. I haven’t moved since…” he gestured in the general direction of the bedroom.

 

Libby knew what he meant. She’d had the unfortunate experience of reading one of the many gossip rags of exactly what had happened, benedict had come home from a party to find them mating on their bed, whilst his wedding tux and her dress were hung up on the far side of the room like giant flags of inappropriateness. Rachel and El Dulce then quickly dressed and fled after she revealed she didn’t want to marry him and was sorry he found out this way. She promptly handed back the ring and flounced off looking apologetic and sorry but uncaring as they were both now headed to the airport, bound for Greece. Ben was left staring at their sex sheets and, insultingly, empty Trojan wrappers that littered the bed. With his heart, and life now in pieces. Libby had damn near cried after she read it, throwing the magazine in the bin afterwards.

 

“I’ll deal with it, you won’t have to lift a finger to any of that stuff, I promise.” Libby soothed.

 

Ben nodded, his glass now empty as he chugged down the remaining drink and plonked the glass down on the table beside her thigh. Libby took in how rumpled he was, he clearly hadn’t showered in days, not that his scent told her otherwise, he smelled good. He _always_ managed to smell good. But the scruffiness of his unruly and unkempt dark tresses and the jaded shadow of stubble rather gave away his lack of ventures into the bathroom. His jeans were seemingly clean, but very rumpled and wrinkled as he sat, he was also wearing that Brooklyn bridge t-shirt that she was sick of the sight of as he favoured it so much, she gave it to him as a gift for Christmas (five years ago) It had to be possibly threadbare in some places by now. Overtop that he wore a slouchy grey cardigan that was left unbuttoned and gathered at his sides like billowing curtains. Upon closer inspection, Libby saw that there were indeed darkened patches of discolour where scotch had dribbled down his front. And, she supposed, he just wouldn’t be Benedict without the mismatched and garish coloured socks that were clad on his feet.

 

He gave a deep sigh, head slumping miserably as he rubbed his eyes with one hand, making them all the more red as more tears gathered in his eyes.

 

“I didn’t even tell my parents.”

 

He uttered in an aching whisper.

 

“They probably had to read about it in the newspaper….”

 

He slumped, voice breaking unevenly, as Libby realised he was now sobbing.

 

She shuffled herself onto the sofa beside him, trying to hold back tears of her own, pulling the shaking and weak mess of her friend into her arms, feeling the scratch of his stubble bristle against the skin of her neck as she tucked him into a hug and let him cry. His hot tears splashing down over her skin, soaking into her jumper. Benedict let himself slump into her arms, relieved to feel the warm weight of her under his palms, she was wearing possibly the world’s softest grey jumper, which he was now weeping onto. And she smelt distinctively like Libby, a scent that was all in its own in categorisation. That unmistakable scent of John Paul Gautier’s Madame Perfume and the ever lingering scent of lavender that hung around her whenever he hugged her. He would never admit this aloud, but he always loved the way Libby smelled, the perfume that Rachel always wore was, it was okay. It was Versace, but, to his taste it was too sharp and suffocating, and it didn’t measure anywhere near how wonderful Libby’s scent was. So, He sobbed and shook and wailed until there were no more tears left, at which point he felt empty and broken, but slightly more sated and released than before, he hadn’t really cried over it all yet. But, it seemed he couldn’t hold back the tears under floodgates any longer.

 

He sniffled against the neck of her jumper, where the garment scooped around her neck, and his nose rubbed up at the juncture of where her shoulder joined up to her throat. Her hands were splayed to his back, rubbing over his spine as he curved into her to cry, he didn’t even care that it was a sissy thing to do, he knew this would go far beyond something that Libby would tease him for, this was painful and raw, and something she would never laugh at him for. She rested her chin on the exact place, on the opposite shoulder where he rested his, just where his shoulder curved into his neck. Her head resting against his, inhaling his all-male scent of smoke, whiskey and the salty tang of sweat and long faded cologne. Ben was in now mind to complain, and by the way she was relaxing into him, neither was she.

 

Ben inhaled deep, just breathing and just needing her here, not complaining even as strands of her gloriously red coconut scented hair fell into his face, escaping from the way she had pinned it up. He just took a breath and took her all in. She was his constant source of grounding, pulling him back to earth. His five foot nine of long legs, blue eyed curvy redheaded wonderfulness. She had held his hand through every audition, seen every shockingly bad play he had starred in, and even when they were poor and penniless twenty something’s, they would scrape together their cash and splurge on appalling takeaways, huddling by the radiator in a damp, mould ridden, cold and tiny flat that was the size of a postage stamp, but feeling, in each other’s company, like the two richest people in the world. But as his career blossomed, so did hers. She helped him move to his swanky new flat complete with a doorman and a front desk, and they clinked beer bottles and drank to his wealth and his new pad, as they hauled boxes up and down stairs to his new home after he received his first big Hollywood pay check. He had been the one sat outside her publisher’s office and the board of directors as they agreed to publish her first children’s novel that she had been writing and illustrating since college. They had attended numerous amounts of premieres together, some, she as his guest and others, him, as hers. He would act in one thing, and she would write the screenplay for another. He would desperately try and peek at her sketches for her next kid’s book, which escalated quickly to fame, receiving all the fame the brilliant book and drawings deserved, the drawings of which she would shield from him until they were printing and binding it. And she would hound and hammer him about when the next series of Sherlock was coming out, buying up all the merchandise, making umpteenth Sherlock references to him and finding it hilarious when she would hand him a cup of tea at her place, and the mug had the front door of 221b stamped on it. He would roll his eyes and laugh, and she would just smile breathtakingly at him. He couldn’t imagine ever having to get along without her, and she the same about him. The last twelve weeks had been a partial hell for him, on the one hand, he was getting married to a woman who he loved and who made his heart sing in happiness, but, on the other hand, the amount of times his hand had been in accordance with his brain, simply itching with the urge to pick up the phone and text his best friend. He was relieved they were alright now. Because, he just needed his old life back, however shattered, and however painful. He just wanted his best friend laughing with him again.

 

He pulled away, sniffing, and apologising, wiping his face free from the damp tears that had tracked down his face. Sitting back on the sofa, retracting his arms as she slid close to him. One tentative hand still stroking his back.

 

“I uhm. Needed that. Thank you.”

 

He stammered, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles as he looked over to her, seeing her smile lightly and cart her hand up and down his back once more. Benedict, then, suddenly felt very exhausted. Grief and pain eating away at him inside, as well as physically draining him of strength.

 

“I think, I’m going to go and lie down for a while.”

 

He admitted in a small voice, gesturing to the spare bedroom, he couldn’t go near his own bed after what happened in it.

 

“Go lie down.” Libby soothed in a commanding voice.

 

She found before benedict moved that a hand was placed over her wrist, not gripping her, but not just holding her either.

 

“Will you stay with me? For the night?... I really, I just. Don’t want to be alone is all…”

 

He murmured softly, with a face that was all tears, eyes and cheekbones.

 

“Go sleep. By the time you wake up, I’ll be back with my stuff. And then we shall have the traditional break-up evening.” She assured, smiling.

 

“So, mountains of Pizza and Chinese food in front of Casablanca, under the duvet on the sofa in our pyjama’s…” Benedict asked, with a barely there smile.

 

“And in case you feel like it, Ben and Jerry’s in the freezer.” She promised. To which Ben chuckled.

 

“What? No low fat cheap ice cream?” he asked in astonishment.

 

“I think this occasion warrants for the hard stuff…” she breathed in a smile.

 

“What would I do without you, Libs...” He wondered aloud in a small whisper, linking her close so he could press a tiny kiss to her temple.

 

She smiled back at him, and even in the darkness of the dull room, her wonderful blue eyes still seemed to glitter.

 

“Luckily, I’ll never give you the opportunity to find out, Batch.”

 

 

 

 


	2. Silliness, Chow Mein, and Secrets...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Breakup Aftermath: Part II - in which we see smiles return, as well as the soppy belief that Friends are really all you need to get you by... and a little something else flickering away in the depths of friendship.... also starring a brief cameo from T-Hiddy.

 

 

After a quick cab ride back to mine to gather together my stuff, I started upon dismantling the breakup nest of pain and sorrow that was Benedict’s flat. I threw back all the curtains and let the, somewhat lighter, evening sun blaze through the windows, I propped his balcony doors open with a chair and allowed the heavy daze of smoke to be replaced by clean, cold air that smelt like it had autumn riding in on it. (that, complete with half a dozen Yankee candles having been lit, and three or four incense oil pots dotted around the room) and finally, the place began to smell nice again. Plus I had made Ben’s favourite apple pie and brownies rising in the oven to help coax out the awful smoky smell, and, as I suspected he hadn’t eaten anything in days as all he had in his fridge was some out of date bacon, a basket of mouldy tomatoes and a jar of pickles. Luckily, 16 years of friendship and I knew exactly what food to stock his fridge with. I even softened and brought him a banoffee pie as a treat, knowing sweets were his weakness. All rubbish that littered the floor around the sofa – namely empty cigarette boxes – were thrown in the bin, and I hoovered and cleaned around his large open plan space - which didn’t take more than five minutes, and I found a stale fortune cookie wedged under his sofa – I also polished the kitchen surfaces and dusted up a bit. The end result feeling and seeming like a different flat to the one I found him in. After the cleaning was done, I pulled all the doors and windows I had opened to let the smoke out, shut, and whacked up the heating so it would be warm and cosy for us later. After plumping up the pillows on his sofa and tidying general Benedict-y style mess away, I had but one task left to tackle. – The bedroom.

 

I walked into ben’s familiar room, still seeing essences of Rachel dotted everywhere. Her hand cream on the bedside table, a photo of them in France on his side of the bed. Her wedding dress hung up in plain sight for all to see next to Ben’s tuxedo by the wardrobe. I sighed, gingerly getting to work as I picked up the condom wrappers that had been left here, and sweeping them into the bin without too much thought. I then had the bed stripped and bare in record time of under 30 seconds, pillows and all. Trying not to look at the crinkled white sheets for fear of what I may stumble across. Five minutes later, and Rachel and El Dulce’s sex sheets had been tossed down the rubbish chute. I brought out the freshly washed sheets for Ben’s bed and remade it, plumping up all the pillows and tucking in the duvet. I then swept around the room with a cardboard box, gathering up all elements of Rachel from the room. I know it seemed presumptuous, but, just judging by the way he couldn’t even say her name without tearing up, I didn’t think stabbing little reminders of her presence would be missed. Photos, hand cream, shirts, jumpers, books, jewellery, underwear. If it belonged to Rachel, it was in the box. I even placed her wedding dress carefully on top the boxes of her discarded stuff, putting everything in Ben’s barely used walk in cupboard/coatroom by his front door. Out of sight and out of mind for him to do with it, whatever he liked. Ignore it, burn it, or send it back. It was utterly his choice. Finally, the flat finally felt like Ben’s again, a warm place that hugged you when you entered, with personal little knick knacks strewn all over. Satisfied that my work in the bedroom was done, I walked back through to the warm scented living room, and sorted through his post, I was just binning all his junk mail when the phone rang, I shouldered it, cradling it between my ear and my neck as I threw out yet another Indian takeaway leaflet.

 

“ _Oh,_ oh hello, dear. It’s Wanda.” Came the soft coo of Ben’s mother down the phone.

 

I smiled on hearing the smoky kind voice that could only belong to Wanda Ventham, I had met her numerous times after having known Ben for 16 years. We were forever swapping recipes and me and Ben would often visit them for lunch on weekends, or new years – if he wasn’t busy. Sometimes just a slow wander around a garden centre in the country with his parents before a roast dinner back at theirs was pure bliss. I adored Ben’s parents in every way

 

“Wanda, Hi, it’s Libby…” I breathed down the phone, happy to hear her comforting voice.

 

“Hello my love, how are you doing? Dare I ask, but how is he?”

 

I winced in preparation to deliver her the news.

 

“Oh, um, I’m fine. Ben’s um, well, he…” I took a deep breath.

 

“Between you and me, Wanda, he’s in a pretty bad state.”

 

“I figured as much, that’s my son’s biggest fault, never the one to cause hurt, he’s always the one left heartbroken.”

 

“Yeah. Well, anyway. I just came over to make sure he was still breathing, He’d been wallowing for a couple of days by the time I found him, but, I made him sleep and I’m ordering food later so he’ll have had something other than whiskey in his stomach, and I’m just about to return some of his calls…”

 

Wanda’s gentle laughter echoed down the phone to me.

 

“Oh my dear. He’s so lucky to have a woman like you in his life…” she soothed. “I know I’m his mother, but, for all the times I can’t be there for him, I’m relieved and happy to know you can.”

 

I smiled at her words.

 

“Oh, and by the way, Timothy and I have a copy of your latest book. It’s simply stunning darling, you’re such a talented girl.”

 

I chuckled lightly down the phone. She was her son’s mother all right.

 

“Thanks Wanda. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

 

“Well, I must be going or I’ll miss the beginning of pointless, but tell Ben we rang, and we’ll ring again tomorrow. Bubye dear.”

 

“Bye.” I smiled, putting the phone down.

 

After placing the phone back down on the answering machine, I found that Ben had in fact 12 messages from his mum or his dad, one per day since they found out. He had six from Tom, 8 from me, 3 from Chris Pine, 5 from Adam, 1 from Zachary Quinto and a rather cheekily explicit one from Simon Pegg in traditional Simon style. And his phone revealed he had texts from Martin with Amanda’s well wishes, one from Mark and Ian, aswell as Sue and Steven, and many from James. Even JJ had fired one off to enquire into how he was doing. (I smiled lightly at seeing JJ’s message as he was an old flame of mine that had once flickered in the past) heartened that a whole bevy of concerned friends had rung or got in touch to check he was ok, I had just finished replying to his last text when from down the hall, the spare bedroom door opened, and out walked the calamity of the man himself.

 

He was rubbing his eyes and yawning, and glancing behind him I saw the bed sheets he slept in were mussed and rumpled, and even the 3 hour nap had done nothing to replenish his energy. Dark bags hung under his eyes like grey hammocks and his stubbly face made him look all the more scruffy and dishevelled, he was even still dressed in his clothes from earlier, sans socks as I knew he couldn’t sleep under the covers with socks on. He padded toward me on unguarded and yet unawake feet and dreary looking blue eyes. When he got to the living room doorway, he paused, looking around in wonderment at the very different looking flat that he now saw before him.

 

“I’m sorry, But I’m looking for my flat, I could’ve sworn I left it here…” he spoke, pointing with confusion at the room before him. It was now warm and clean smelling, and looking less like a drug dealers crack den. I had put the mood lighting on and even lit a fire in his huge stone fireplace, the tidy room smelling like clean airy linen and apple pie. A warm festive scent that was far superior to the one of smoke, whiskey and sadness.

 

“I also returned your thousands of texts and calls from numerous do gooders… I think everyone just short of Prince Harry called you up, Ben…” I smiled, handing him back his phone that was in my hands.

 

He smiled and took it from me. Flickering his eyes over the last message I replied too - which happened to be JJ- at which he waggled his eyebrows.

 

“That old flame of yours still flickering then?” he asked with a smile, seeming more like his old self now.

 

“Please, he’s what- engaged? Now.” I asked with reddening cheeks, watching as Ben shook his head.

 

“Broke it off a year ago, he told me so himself last time we met up for lunch a month ago, still single.” Ben winked.

 

“So _not_ the avenue of conversation I was intending to head down.” I dismissed seeing him smirk teasingly at me.

 

“Now…” I snapped, restoring authority in my voice.

 

“You, need to go and get your five star Hollywood ass into that shower and wash the last ten days off you, because, I’m sorry, mister, there are odd dirty days and then there are Mrs Havisham type dirty days, and you, sir, are the latter, so go get clean, and by the time you come out, I will have ordered dinner…”

 

I urged, shooing him into the bathroom, seeing him put up his hands in surrender, I pushed him until we got to the bathroom door, adjacent to his bedroom, which he stared into, pausing for a moment, seeing the clean sheets and the wedding dress gone, aswell as all of Rachel’s stuff missing too.

 

“I put all her things into boxes and put them in your coatroom, I hope that’s not too insolent of me, I just thought it might wound you still to see her stuff lying around…” I explained in a small voice, watching him stare, before he broke his gaze and turned back to me.

 

“No, it’s not insolent of you at all, it’s exactly what I needed, a complete Rachel detox... thank you. Libs. Again. You really are my little survival kit.”

 

He cooed, squeezing my hand in a friendly manner before disappearing into the bathroom and shutting the door behind him.

 

I sighed, pleased that he wasn’t angry at me for tidying away her things.

 

I crossed to my phone and pressed speed dial 3, hearing it ring a few times before the familiar voice of one of my favourite men in my life picked up at the other end.

 

“Hi Joey, Hey, yeah it’s Libby. Listen, Can I have triple of my usual please? And um, load me up on all ben’s favourites for me while you’re at it. We’re at his place and well, we have a break up to get through.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Half an hour later, and me and ben were doing the exact thing I had promised him we would. Lounging on the sofa, my legs in his lap, happily ensconced under a cosy warm duvet with the fire blazing in the background and Humphrey Bogart on the TV screen. In front of us on the coffee table lay three full to the brim bags of numerous cartons of Chinese food, and four pizzas with everything on them aswell as cheesy garlic bread. My legs were thrown over Benedict’s lap and his head was lolled onto my shoulder as he picked idly at his Kung pao chicken which sat in his lap. After his shower, he had taken the decision to change into his slouchy sweat pants and glow in the dark socks, along with a worn blue jumper that he favoured for slumming around in. I myself had changed into my own PJ’s, far too big blue cotton bottoms and button up top, worn with my woolly grey socks which the bottoms were tucked into. My hair was still thrown up into a straggly bun that was beginning to droop now, and I was very busy stuffing my face with pepperoni pizza and spring rolls.

 

“We ordered enough food for ten people…” Ben clarified, looking at the mountain of food that was sat in front of him. Not taking his eyes off the movie.

 

“You know one of my many talents, including flawless clumsiness and great skill with a sketching pencil, also includes the outstanding capability to eat enough food for ten people. Besides, the Chinese food is dirt cheap, and all you can eat and I swear, no matter how much you order, you can never spend more than fifteen quid.” Libby argued.

 

“That’s a very good point.” He muttered, eating a wonton whole whilst watching a bar brawl break out on the Telly screen.

 

“Besides, this will feed you for the rest of the week. Chinese food is always better when cold” Libby stretched, her calves brushing across Ben’s lap, the movement making his legs tingle with pleasure.

 

They watched in comfortable silence as Rick refused to give Ilsa the letters in a deserted café, and then, the two of them uttered two very well know sentences that they would always utter when they watched the film together.

 

Libby: “I wish I was as pretty as Ingrid Bergman…”

 

Ben: “I want to be as legendary as Humphrey Bogart one day…”

 

To which ben would reply: “You are. Every bit.”

 

And Libby; “you will be, I promise you that...”

 

And then they both continued to eat in silence, lapping up the glory of the old black and white film before they both heard a knock rattle across his front door. Ben moved to get up, but Libby was quicker, thrusting her plate down, she bounded up and over to the door, peering through the peephole to see a familiar friendly face and a long unmistakably lanky figure crowd the hallway.

 

“Who goes there? Friend or foe?” she mock growled to Tom through the door. He smiled but otherwise said nothing as Libby swung open the door, to see Tom was holding a bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand, and a greasy looking brown paper takeaway bag in the other.

 

“I come bearing whiskey and awful Mexican food…”

 

He explained in his crisp precise, Cambridge educated voice. His hair was short and red at the minute, and the trimmed stubble on his face suited him all too well, he was shaping it into a goatee for a Shakespeare role that he started filming on soon. Otherwise, in true Tom style, he looked immaculate, dressed down, squeaky clean, and immaculate. He was wearing dark jeans and sturdy black boots, with a grey checked shirt and black leather jacket. Mind, the man could wear a towel and still strut down the runway with carelessness.

 

He surveyed the sight of his friend in her pyjamas stood in ben’s doorway. And his eyebrows immediately raised as his smile tipped up.

 

“Any man bearing food and, frankly sissy booze, is a friend of ours…” Libby smiled, waving him in as he walked past her, pausing to lean in and gave her a kiss on the cheek as she indulged him in a hug. He even smelt wonderful too as she enveloped his wiry frame in a hug that barely reached the top of his chest. She felt one of his thin leathery arms fold around her back, pulling away after his gentlemanly kiss to her forehead.

 

“Hello darling…” he cooed to Libby, shrugging off his jacket and setting down the booze as he handed Libby the cooling bag of food, which she carried over to add to their stockpile.

 

“Hello dear.” Ben called from the sofa, not taking his eyes off of Bogart.

 

Tom hung his jacket up by the door, looking over at his best friend who remained unmoving with his eyes glued to the telly.

 

“Um. How’s he doing? I would’ve called round sooner, but, work ran late and kept me busy.” Tom whispered lowly to Libby.

 

“Well. He was in full on Havisham mopey mode when I got here, but, he seems to be alright now. I’ve cleaned up, fed him, returned his sympathy calls, and de-Rachelised his flat.” I explained in a whisper.

 

“ _Ouff,_ ouch!” He winced, knowing all too well the ruthless aftermath of ugly breakups.

 

“Well, if it’s any consolation, I’m glad you guys are speaking again, one more week of that silly nonsense and I would have dragged him by his earlobe to come and force him to apologise to you, just so you know…” Tom winked in a friendly manner, showing a preference for being on her side during the spat, as Ben had said some awful things to her.

 

“Come on, we have a surplus of food getting cold, and I think Bogart’s about to help Ingrid out…” she gestured to the movie, encouraging tom to the sofa.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

An hour or two later, after they had finally finished Casablanca and rick had declared the beginning of a beautiful friendship, the three had decided to move on to the less well known classic, Fifth Element. Complete with out there Gautier costumes, and the days when Bruce Willis had hair. As they watched Mila Jovovich jump off a building, Tom and Ben still relentlessly pursued after an avenue of conversation into Libby’s life which she would rather they didn’t…

 

“How long? Come on, I’m your best friend, it’s your obligation and your _duty_ to tell me…” Ben pleaded, stealing another slice of surprisingly, still warm pizza.

 

“I am not sharing this information with you.” Libby steeled.

 

“Spill the beans! Turner! I’m you’re other best friend! You can tell me…” Tom persuaded.

 

“Oh my god, guys, time to let it go. It’s been three years…” She said, sounding exasperated.

 

“Just tell us. How long you did you date Paul Bettany for?” Ben relented.

 

Libby sighed, her head twisting to the side as she tried to hide her red face, Tom nudging her in the ribs as he smiled, and Ben, sat the other side of her with a nonstop cry of;

 

“Pleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseplease…”

 

“OK! OKAY! A year and a half…” she cried, wishing to shut them up.

 

“WHAT?” Tom cried in surprise

 

“How in the hell did you hide that from us?” Benedict squeaked, smiling inescapably widely at her, to which her cheeks went red and her head bowed to her bent knees as she tried to conceal her face.

 

“I hid it from you because you would act then, how you are acting now, needy and pathetic!” Libby chided, as if she was chastising two children for naughty behaviour.

 

“Sorry, not sorry.” Said Tom, crossing his arms and smiling like the devil as he carried on watching the film.

 

“Ahhh, my day has been made, you have shagged Paul Bettany…” Ben said aloud, smiling and laughing over the sounds of Libby’s groans.

 

“It wasn’t serious...” Libby insisted.

 

“Did he ever make you breakfast, and or, cook you dinner?”

 

Libby went a further fetching shade of red in a non-verbal confirmation.

 

“Oh my god, Woman! You had a full on, sex centred, serious relationship with Paul Bettany.” Ben finished, torturing his friend with this newfound information.

 

She shook her head.

 

“Why do I put up with you Cumberbatch, you otter faced fiend!” she growled throwing a spring roll at him, which, to his credit, he caught in his mouth.

 

Tom chuckled, sensing things back to the norm between them, reaching over for the rest of his taco and his Chow Mein.

 

“I just can’t believe you hid it from us.” Tom shook his head, eyes on the screen as he popped a prawn cracker into his mouth and crunched noisily.

 

“You, _especially. You!_ Have no say in this, Hiddleston!” Libby pointed a finger at him accusingly with a smile growing on her lips.

 

Tom’s own smile increased as he looked at her with deviousness in his eyes.

 

“I have no idea what you mean.” He purred, munching nosily on yet another prawn cracker.

 

“Oh but you do.” She glared, still, with a smile.

 

Tom simply smiled.

 

“Just contributing to the list of your old flames…” Tom smirked.

 

“Thomas, you top the list of my old flames. Matter of fact you were my very first deflowering flame…” Libby confessed, referring to the two and a half years for which they dated in University. and both being each other's first times.

 

“…here comes the long confession about how no one since had ever lived up to the glory of your love, tom.” Benedict winked.

 

Libby shook her head. Jaw grinding in smiling annoyance as Tom threw an arm around her.

 

“Just answer me this, love, who was better in the sack, me, or Paul?” Tom whispered huskily into Libby’s ear, at which Ben sniggered the other side of her hearing him.

 

Libby turned to Tom with a flirty smile and gleaming eyes,

 

“Thomas, My darling…” she purred seductively.

 

“I _never_ shag and tell.” She winked, turning back to her food and the TV screen as both friends laughed either side of her.

 

“Oh, by the way Tom. I owe you a fiver.” Benedict smiled.

 

Libby turned confused to the man on her right, raising her brows.

 

Benedict turned his head to her as he realised he was being stared at.

 

“I said you were just shagging, Tom said you were serious, we placed a fiver on it.”

 

Libby growled, “That’s it. I have got to find some new friends!” she said angrily as Ben enveloped her in a hug and kissed her right temple, and tom handed her an apologetic slice of pizza.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Thanks for stopping by, mate.” Benedict whispered as Tom shrugged on his jacket.

 

“No problem,” Tom whispered back “I’m glad to find you’re ok, given the circumstances” he said lovingly, clapping a hand on Ben’s shoulder.

 

Ben smiled, the dull ache of pain that was still fresh from losing Rachel in such a way would be sore and tender for a while. But, ultimately, at the end of it all, Ben would always be alright, so long as he had his friends to help him get by, then he would always be ok, and he now loathed the fact that he nearly lost Libby, his much needed survival kit, all due to one lying woman with a big hurtful secret.

 

They were only whispering as it was now eleven o’clock and Libby had fallen asleep on Ben’s sofa somewhere near the end of Die Hard 3. And was now snoozing happily in a post too-much-takeaway-food- coma, So Ben and Tom had sat and chatted whilst they devoured half the apple pie and brownies Libby had made earlier.

 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to help you carry her?” Tom asked, sorting out the collar on his leather jacket.

 

“No, she’s petite enough, not at all heavy, I’ll be fine.” Ben insisted, looking down at her and smiling, brushing a stray strand of red hair away from her forehead.

 

Tom was no fool. He saw a loving look flash across his friend’s eyes as he looked down at her.

 

“You love her don’t you Ben?” Tom asked in a hushed whisper.

 

Benedict stilled, looking up at Tom, from where he was crouched with a caught out expression on his face.

 

“As a friend, yes, of course I do.” Ben stammered quickly. His cheeks going the faintest hint of pink, as Tom twitched one eyebrow in disbelief.

 

At that one simple twinge in his friend’s facial expression, his resolve melted, and a sheepish expression then crossed Ben’s face.

 

“Let’s just say, Rachel cheating on me wasn’t the only reason that we broke up…” Ben admitted shyly, plucking at a loose thread on the duvet cover Libby was under.

 

“You’re secrets safe with me.” Tom spoke quietly, meaningfully, and softly.

 

Ben nodded, moving to stand and hand Tom his bottle of Jack Daniels back.

 

“Hey, no. keep it. We can have it on the rocks when you decide you want to start bitching about women and Italians…” Tom winked, clapping his friend on the shoulder.

 

Ben smiled, his warm eyed creased smile that indicated he was moving closer back to being his cheery old self, so, at that the two men Clapped arms in a brotherly hug before pulling away and whispering their mutual goodbye’s, before Tom silently slipped out of the door.

 

Benedict cleared away the food, placing everything haphazardly into the fridge, and stoking the now dying fire to make sure the embers slowly fizzled and burned out. He made sure all the lights were turned off, and the door was locked and bolted before he padded back over to the sofa and scooped Libby up into his arms, duvet and all, as he carried her to his bed. He had considered it would be far more gentlemanly to place her in the spare room, but the heating was off in there, so it would be freezing, and he decided he needed some newer, less painful memories of this bedroom to cleanse his mind, and Libby seemed to do just the trick.

 

He kicked open the door to his room, and placed her small sleeping frame down on the far side of the bed to the door, besides, his side of the bed was always the right. He kicked the door closed and pulled off his socks, moving to settle on the bed next to her, a respectable distance away from where she laid.

 

Only she must have felt the bed dip down, as she stirred awake and mumbled his name sleepily.

 

“Ben?” she murmured, blearily opening her eyes,

 

“What’s going on?” she asked, dozily. Not opening her eyes as she threw her leg over the duvet and shuffled to get comfy, moaning lazily with content in her movements.

 

Ben chuckled softly to himself, “Time to go to sleep, Libs.” He mumbled.

 

“Mmmn-but I was supposed to take care of you…” she offered weakly.

 

Ben smiled, leaning over and gently stroking his hand over her cheek.

 

“You did, and you did a wonderful job…” Ben spoke.

 

“Now it’s time I repaid the favour, and took care of you darling…” He explained. His thumb brushing over her lips gently.

 

It would have been so easy, in that moment, to simply sink down and press his lips to hers, and finally, after years of wondering, finally finding out what those lips of hers tasted like.

 

_So easy....._

 

He smiled looking at her, before switching off the bedside light, and settling down next to her under the covers, for the first time in ten days, feeling remarkably like his old self again, and better than he had felt in years.

 


	3. The Breakfast, The Bride and The Best Friend...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of morning after action for you all 
> 
> but mostly for sparkledp.... 
> 
> Enjoy 
> 
> Love Author 
> 
> x

 

 

 

Libby woke up slowly the next morning, she felt warm, impossibly comfortable and wiggling her toes as she stirred into life, never wanting to move. Her brow crinkled and she looked around the strange room, forgetting for a moment where she was. But as she could make out on the bedside table, in a frame, the goofy holiday shot of her, Ben and Tom in a castle in Scotland, she instantly relaxed. You wouldn’t have thought it possible that two of Britain’s most eligible and handsome bachelors could make such goofy, and laughable faces when they were pictured on magazine covers, looking pouty and distantly serious. But as she saw the photo framed on the bedside table, she could recall instantly where she was. At Benedict’s. In his bed.

 

She shuffled back down into the pillows, burying herself into the warm little cocooning nest she had slept in, curled up under a thick, freshly washed and clean smelling duvet. As she detected the tingly promise of pins and needles start to thrash up and down her shoulder, she shuffled around, turning on her other side to give her shoulder a respite. And what she thought earlier was the heavy weight of the duvet, was in fact, Benedict’s arm thrown over her. She could tell it what it was now, as when she turned to roll over, she did so only to be halted by the thick wall of his chest pressed close to her back. She stiffened for a second, peering up through sleep crusted eyes to see the man himself still dead asleep. Mouth set in a smooth line, with those familiar lips softly pressed together, and his eyelashes spilling over to his cheeks, he really did have beautifully long eyelashes… and his lips, oh god his lips, how long had she, and every other captivated Cumberbabe spent dreaming about how they would feel. And now could be the perfect opportunity – sans morning breath – to lean over and gently mould her lips to his and find out. His hair was slightly ruffled from where he had tossed in the night, the dark assortment of curls thrown over his forehead recklessly. She struggled to see how he was humbled by his looks when people complimented him on them, of course, you could search a million men to find facial features like his, but they would be few and far between. He thought his eyes were too far apart, and that his lips were too big, and he had never made peace with the shape of his head (cue his famous self-deprecating Sid the sloth reference) but, that was only because when he looked in the mirror, all he could see was his posing face staring back. He would never see how his eyes lit up like light bulbs when he got excited, or when his smile tipped and stretched and creased when he laughed, he would never know how beautiful he was to her in those unseen moments.

 

 _You beautiful thing, you._ She thought happily to herself, resisting the urge to kiss over every famous inch of his Hollywood face. To drag her thumb over a sharp cheekbone, or curve his tousled silky strands of hair back over his forehead. She settled for curling her hand close to the front of his ribs, and shuffling close, so close, she noticed when she closed her eyes and continued to chase dregs of sleep, that she could feel the hot gusts of his breath tickle her cheeks. She couldn’t resist one more quick peek at him before she retired to her dreams again. Which made he slowly smile before she let her eyes slip shut again.

 

Libby’s shuffling however, woke the second dozing inhabitant of the bed. Ben’s eyes slowly tugged open to find that the woman who had floated through his dreams as he slept, was right here, tucked close to his chest in his arms whilst they slept. And they he remembered why, he had begged for her to stay, and she had fallen asleep on his sofa. Her cheek was smashed against the pillow, strands of her bright red hair curling and falling into her face. She had left it up overnight, and the raggedy bun now looked frayed and disorganised. But it suited her in a sexy carefree way. He adored that about her. She could just throw up her hair any old way, and not give a damn about how it looked. Whereas Rachel, a woman who was far vainer than his friend, would spend three hours tweaking and teasing her hair into the perfect arrangement, and tell him off and throw a serious strop when he messed it up leaning in to kiss his girlfriend. Suddenly a wave of something pure and real washed over Ben, and it was the words that Libby herself had spoken to him yesterday…

 

_“You deserve better than her Ben, you really do.”_

 

And suddenly, her words made such sense, because he didn’t want another primadonna girlfriend, a high maintenance, moody, stick thin woman, who cared more about her looks and what diet worked best. He wanted someone he could laugh with, at the most stupid of things, curl up on the sofa with a bowl of popcorn and laugh at Fawlty Towers til their sides ached. Not sit there and complain about how silly the TV show was and how many calories there were in popcorn. There were also still places he wanted to travel in the world, backpack around Asia and Peru, and he couldn’t do that with a skinny airhead who couldn’t even point out where Brazil was on the map, and who clicked everywhere in dainty Louboutins. He wanted to hike and climb and explore with a woman who wasn’t afraid to scrape her knees or get her hands and nails dirty, and who didn’t mind clomping around in heavy boots, not caring if she looked feminine or not. He wanted someone who was uncaring, and confident in the way they looked, in a way which meant they could throw their hair up into any old fashion, tug on jeans and old biker boots, with no makeup, wearing nothing at all and feeling as sexy and as confident as if she were all dolled up. He didn’t want any of the negative qualities listed above in a woman anymore, much, he thought, like Rachel’s own qualities. Instead he wanted the silently confident, sexy, funny, red-haired, DM wearing, full figured, curvy yet slender and stunningly amazing woman, who was in his dreams every night, and who made him smile even when she wasn’t around… And she was lying right here, not ten inches away from him. Right under his nose. Smelling maddeningly like lavender and looking beautiful and sexy even as she slept.

 

He swallowed, just barely resisting the urge to undo the drooping and tousled bun at the back of her head, drag his fingers through it, before gripping her head and crushing her lips to his and a soft hot kiss. My god, he had dreamt about doing this so many times, it bordered on creepy and pathetic. He dreamt how he would kiss her, slowly, inching and reeling her closer until she was there, tucked under him, soft and welcoming, and his hands would be encouraged to wander freely over her superb thighs or her luscious bottom. And let’s not even get him started on her world class breasts that he had found himself silently checking out on more than one occasion. As he continued staring at her, the need to kiss her grew and grew, until had such a firm grip on him that he had no choice but to close his eyes and continue sleeping before he did what he had envisioned himself doing to her so many times…

 

 

 

 

The next time Ben woke up, he blinked his eyes open blearily to see that the spot that Libby had filled In the bed next to him was empty, still slightly warmed from her body heat as a soothing reminder that she hadn’t left him long. He shuffled, his nose snuffling against the coolness of her pillow, when he breathed in deep he was hit by a wave of her coconut/lavender/perfume fragrance that could only ever belong to her, and warmed his gut whenever he got near it. He was so pleased she adhered to his request to stay the night, already he felt miles away from the miserable introvert that he was a week ago, slumped on his sofa drinking whisky and not eating anything so he felt drunk enough to forget all the pain and anger Rachel caused him, but when he sobered up again, it would hit him as if he had run into a brick wall and he would immediately seek out more drink to help him forget. So he was silently relieved when Libby knocked on his door, with food to soak up the booze, and a do-good attitude that cleared all essences of Rachel out of the way. She had the uncanny and very female ability to be able to think exactly within his brain’s wavelength. Knowing what he needed before he himself did.

 

He rubbed his eyes and sat up, for the first time in a week, a headache wasn’t pounding into his temples and making his brain ache with thought, he felt refreshed, like he had finally gotten some sleep and sense into his system. So that pounding that wasn’t in his head, turned out to be coming from his music system in his kitchen, and as he stood and pulled open his bedroom door, the soft scent of breakfast being cooked for him made his stomach gurgle in complaint and his tongue salivate. Libby was a truly great cook, forever trying new things, new recipes and weird combinations and infusions of flavour. Even when faced with the challenge of eating crickets or some part of an animal that shouldn’t even be thought about, let alone cooked, she would eat in a dare devil may care kind of way all to lay claim to the notion that she could (she did actually crickets on one long since passed holiday in Sri Lanka just so she could say she had) she also wasn’t afraid of spice either, she was a real ball buster when it came to being open minded and trying new things, which he had to kind of admit, he loved about her. The fact her stubborn personality shone through everything she did, in every aspect of her life. She was level headed and after 16 years of knowing her, he had yet to find one thing that would faze her.

 

Ben padded into the kitchen, like a stomach on legs he was keen to know what she was cooking, it smelled suspiciously like her world class scrambled egg with cheese. He could fondly remember after a rough and long night out at Uni, she would make a huge batch for the veterans who were bravely battling hangovers the next morning, and it always seemed to do the trick, her cooking became famed in their student house, and the eggs became known as the finest hangover cure, nothing – not even a hangover - seemed quite as bad after her breakfasts. He peered around the doorway, only to have a smile coaxed out onto his lips at the sight of her. She was dancing around, wiggling her magnificent ass around to, by the sounds of things, some god awful maroon 5 song, the one with all the whistling and singing about Mick Jagger. She had her back to him as she flailed around in front of his oven, skillet in hand as she tossed around some unknown food in the pan. Which the sight and smell of, made his stomach growl loudly in protest.

 

She turned, and ceased to sing as she found him stood there chuckling at her, dancing around in her socks and pyjamas, he saw that she had redone her hair from earlier, gathering the strands that had fallen out of her updo as she slept, tugging them up into a newly organised messy bun. But still, despite her attempts at taming it, a couple of stray hairs defied her rule, and escaped down her past her ears, fringe, and the back of her neck. He also noticed she had put on her reading glasses, which were fogged up slightly with the steam off her cooking, that, and her cheeks were flushed a light pink in an attractive kind of way.

 

“Morning.”

 

She called softly with a smile, sweeping a pyjama clad arm across her forehead, as she still held the pan level, wiping the slight sheen of warmth and sweat off her temples. It was quite warm in his kitchen…

 

“Am I, as the poor dumped introvert, allowed to enquire as to what you are cooking, presumably to shove down my throat under the masquerade of breakfast?”

 

He asked with a small smile and a cheeky glint in his eyes as he moved behind her to tower over her, placing a hand on the side of her hip in a friendly manner to peer over her head and look at what was sizzling away in the pan. He saw bacon, sausages, and the famed scrambled eggs cooking away.

 

“Absolutely not. And I’ll have none of your fussing either, go sit down, your paper’s arrived.”

 

She motioned to the huge slab that was the telegraph paper sat on the granite worktop, which he scooped up and began to scan over the headlines, sitting at the breakfast bar, opposite where she stood at the cooker.

 

She then crossed to his kettle and stirred something in a mug, its steaming contents swirling up to the ceiling, teaspoon clinking as she stirred. She then walked back over and placed said mug in front of him, and he saw it was a cup of coffee intended for him. Just the way he took it, black with three sugars. He peered up at her from the paper through grateful blue orbs, and his smile grew in a way that softened her knees to jelly, as if he had no bones in her legs to support her.

 

“Could you get any more perfect Libs?”

 

He asked rhetorically, peering over the rim of the cup as he took a sip, the heat making his teeth ache and the caffeine bursting into him.

 

She smiled, chuckling as she stumbled slightly into the open cupboard not taking her eyes off his, going red as she closed it with her hand, and fidgeting for a second before drinking a sip of her own drink – he didn’t have to look to know it was tea, because she hated coffee. He raised his brows, confused by her stumble, of course, she wasn’t known for her grace, even though she would like to be graceful, she had moments of sheer unadultered clumsiness, like everyone else. They both ignored, yet noted with appropriate hilarity how ‘Just the two of us’ by Bill Withers blared over the radio.

 

She then refocused her attentions to the breakfast, which she quickly plated up as he read his paper. He only became aware of his breakfast as she slid the plate towards him and handed him a fork. He folded the paper down, and laughed. She had made him a far too large portion of bacon, cheesy covered scrambled eggs, sausages and toast – the toast had a smiley face squirted onto it with ketchup. He couldn’t stop himself from chuckling, placing the knuckles of his right hand to his lips as he did, before accepting the fork from her.

 

“If this is your attempt at a pick me up…”

 

He laughed, to which she leant over the counter on her elbows, smiling up at him from under her glasses as she drank her tea.

 

“Then it’s working. You appear to be laughing Mr Cumberbatch….” She smiled.

 

He made a funny face, straining his lips and making a goofy expression, and adopting a posh voice.

 

“MNmnnnn, yaaaasss, quite.” He mumbled, sounding like Winston Churchill.

 

“You sure you don’t want any? I don’t see a second plate…” he offered, pointing to his plate with his fork angled downwards.

 

“No, I don’t tend to bother with a large breakfast, just give me a bite of your sausage… that’s all I want…” She nodded, looking at his plate.

 

“I bet it is, you _dirty, dirty_ bitch…” He mumbled with a smirk. Winking at her.

 

She closed her eyes and her cheeks went a tad pink.

 

“Oh my god, you are eight years old. What are we in a carry on film?” She laughed, accepting half his breakfast as he handed her over his fork, feeding it to her.

“MN. Hot.” She mumbled, rolling it around in her mouth so she didn’t burn her tongue “thank-you…”

 

“ _SO_ many innuendos running through my head right now.” He spoke aloud.

 

“-And I do not wish to hear any of them…” She spoke, flicking through the review magazine.

 

“All right Ms Killjoy, just shut up and swallow my hot sausage…” he mumbled, spooning eggs into his mouth, seeing her splutter into laughter.

 

“You are living example of why I will not send my children to an all-male school.” She chided, wiping a hand over her smile as if the action would crease it away.

 

He chuckled, chewing in the corner of his toast.

 

“Harrow Educated, ladies and gentleman. Can’t survive in the wilderness, but can conjugate Latin verbs…” he joked, with his fork flying outwards form his forehead in mock salute.

 

“Oh, yeah, I bet that little trick got you scores and legions of babes chasing after you…”

 

Libby smiled, unimpressed but amused. Moving to shift her hips as she stood with one knee bent, drinking more of her tea. Forearms pressed flat to the granite surface now. Benedict was sneakily taking the opportunity to study the great reflection of her ass in his oven door that she was stood adjacent too. He knew he was a fiend for looking, but god didn’t gift her with an ass as immaculate as that, and expect the average weak willed gentleman not to admire and appreciate it, in all it's glory.

 

“As a matter of fact… you public schooled yokel… I had them falling like flies at my feet…” He persuaded, obviously lying.

 

“Alright, but don’t forget I knew you in Uni, and all of the drunken times you tried to flirt with me and chat me up, you didn’t tend to lead with the Latin. Latin _dancing_ yes, but Latin, _verbs_ , no.” she corrected, leaning over and flipping the page of her magazine.

 

“You weren’t so suave yourself…” he smiled, seeing her look up with surprised brows from her reading.

 

“… May I draw your attention to the drunken debacle in the winter of 94’.”

 

“Oh god.” Libby groaned.

 

“…Where, as I recall, a certain hammered young woman, proceeded to stand on the sofa at a wild house party, and, flawlessly by the way, rapped ‘Baby Got Back’ by Sir Mix-a-lot using an empty wine bottle as a mock microphone….” Benedict waggled his eyebrows, seeing her head fall into her hands.

 

“I can’t believe you remember that…” she spoke, appalled.

 

Benedict simply smirked. “I actually thought it was a very sexy performance…” he smiled, seeing she was now shooting him a look of utter stony disbelief.

 

“Shame the end involved you toppling face first off the sofa…” he finished.

 

“Let’s not drag up old Uni memories, because I bet you,…a homemade dinner, that I have more embarrassing memories of you, than you do of me.” She pointed a finger. Benedict was never one to back down from a challenge.

 

“Snogging Mike Trammell, a well-known creep, just because he convinced you his cousin was Billy Idol......"

 

“The vomit fest of 93’! They had to redecorate that downstairs bathroom in your wake..” Libby retaliated.

 

“At least I didn’t have sex with Craig Daniels in a Robin reliant….” Benedict chuckled, the gloves were off now.

 

“OH, Ok. Well. May I just say, Craig is gay now, but back then, he really knew where everything was, believe me, and secondly, I’m not the one who made out with Suzie Koplann in a broom cupboard…”

 

“How did you know about THAT?” Benedict screeched.

 

“Tom took you to A&E Benedict, Her braces nearly split your lips in half, and she was mad about you! She stalked you for two years afterwards!!” Libby smiled.

 

“I thought she was just being.… very… friendly…” He admitted in a small voice… the look in his eyes akin to distant realisation.

 

“Benedict, she used to go through your bins…”

 

His brow furrowed. “Shall we call a truce?”

 

She smirked, “Probably would be best.”

 

There was a moment or two of comfortable silence as they smiled at one another, fondly looking back over their Uni days.

 

“So. Craig Daniels, in a Robin Reliant….” He pressed, looking for more details. Raising his brows. Nearly waggling them at her.

 

Libby smiled. “The one Uni memory I don’t regret actually…” she purred.

 

“That must’ve been….” He started. Looking for the words…

 

“Active….” She finished. Ben struggled not to laugh picturing it.

 

“Knew where everything was, huh?” Ben smiled.

 

Libby laughed, “Oh _yes, he did._ ”

 

It was then that Ben turned the page of the paper, and saw a familiar face that he didn’t want to see…

 

It was a holiday snap of Rachel. In Greece. With Mr El Dulce by her side.

 

 

What really took the wind out of him, like a sucker punch to the gut, was that it was featured in the wedding section….

 

Libby gasped, sliding a hand over his as he read it. “Oh Ben…” she winced.

 

“They eloped…” he spoke in a small yet dark voice, his head was tipped down as he read;

 

“The estranged bride to be of one and only Benedict Cumberbatch, Rachel Simmons, was recently wedded off to Italian fashion model, Paolo Dutti, at a private ceremony on their yacht just off the Amalfi Coast on Sunday. The attending witnesses were members of the groom’s family and an ordained priest who wedded them. Mrs Dutti gave a speech to our travel correspondent, claiming; “I don’t regret the life I left behind in England one bit, I’m happier now than I ever would have dreamed, my loving husband and I would like to thank the family that attended our wedding, and I would just like to point out that I left a life I was not happy with, and was not valued in for one in which I am happy every day, and I would encourage others to do the same, to do the thing that makes you want to get out of bed every morning and never regret a thing, those are my wise words to all.” He finished. The paper slumping in his hands as he read.

 

But, he didn’t feel sad. Not at all. A few days ago, he would’ve read it and tore it to shreds. But now, he felt…

 

Well. He felt freed….

 

Rachel wasn’t happy, she made that much clear, and he couldn’t believe it had taken him this long to realise that he wasn’t either. He would never have been content if he were married to Rachel, because she wasn’t right for him. She was beautiful of course, and pleasant to be with and around, when she wasn’t in a strop. But he shared more laughter with the woman stood opposite him than all the times with Rachel combined.

 

And he looked up at Libby in that moment, to see her face creased with worry, but he suddenly knew what he wanted. And he wanted her.

 

“Benedict, you ok?” she asked with dread.

 

He smiled, wide and happy.

 

“Never been happier.” He beamed.


End file.
